darkitysnark

Soon enough, darkity will be buying panties to match the walls!

"Oh! You wanna take this into the living room, you saucy dog, you? Well, um... hold on a sec. Gotta shimmy out of this number and put on the complementary nightie for that room... 'K? It'll be just a second..."

Snarky TOTALLY read "gorgeous panties" right there. Valentina's influence is subtle and widespread!

Whoops. Too late. The "shittay green" has a lot more brownish yellow in it than the picture shows. Snarky suspects the flash took out a lot of the "pea soup Exorcist" tones that one can only truly appreciate in person. Or maybe the golden color of the flooring brought out that bit of yuck that turned a perfectly good olive green into whatever this was.

And the bruschetta was nummers.

I have what I like to call "tunnel hearing" which makes it nigh impossible for me to hear someone talking to me in a loud, crowded bar. Throw in a live band and I'm absolutely useless socially.

On the Myers-Briggs scale of things, The Mister and I are an exact match except that he's Introverted, and I'm Extroverted.

I think we complement eachother well. I do better in large groups (being the Life of the Party/Stand-up Comedianne) and he handles more intimate gatherings really well. Together we sort of tag team social situations.

But I understand how you feel, even as a somewhat hard-headed extrovert. It's very difficult to find compatible footing with a new person even in the most controlled circumstances.

Wonderful poem! Being all angsty and gothy, though, I can't help but read this as an accusation too.

"You messed me up the the head! I'm all backwards! After loving you!"

OK, that might be more sleep deprivation than anything.

The Snarks thank y'all for your enthusiasm! They are going through lightning quick shifts between excited, exasperated, exhausted, and enthusiastic all at once.

Today's project? Paint six rooms (granted, some of them are just tester walls). For all her gothy proclivities, Darkity has consented to some very saturated, very brilliant shades. Film at 11.

Congratulations on a shrink-wrap-free performance! We all knew you would rise to the occasion.

Once upon a time I was one of the waddling ballerinas (though never one of the 5% body fat crowd, thank goodness) and remember how awkward it was to sit in one of those two piece tutus (top part was corset-like, bottom half was the rotary saw of tule). I would've traded in my leotards for a belly dancer's getup anyday.

And I'm excited about your roses too! I love it when the things I try to grow don't keel over (we're currently at about a 60% success rate).

I am loving the twists and turns of phrase in this poem. Thank you for sharing it, Valentina!

It's even more interesting if you make this a dialogue....

And now I want to look up the omelet poem too! It's been years since I actively sought out a poet. My short stint in creative writing camp made me very self conscious of and for all poets somehow. (Mostly for the readings... which I find awkward, embarrassing, and uncomfortable most of the time.)

Why thank you!

The Snarks can almost remember what it was like to own a house. It was a pain in the patootie (Snarky has a black thumb, and The Mister has a pro-wrestling approach to yardwork), but they loved it! They painted their last house all sorts of funky colors and broke random holes in the wall (with good intentions... that were mostly met... mostly.)

And this house (and yes, it is the little pink dollhouse from previous posts) has so much already done to it... they are getting very excited.

Snarky has made the executive decision to use this blog to document the goings on in Chez Snark along with random third person flights of writerly fancy (and sometimes maybe both at the same time).

Snarky is wondering if her blog might not morph into some sort of "This Old (Goth/Fragrant/Funky) House" log instead. There's only so many permutations of navel-gazey prose that can be eeked out before repeating the angsty loop.

antimony, I your ginormous egg brain! This is not an insult, this is the highest intellectual regard I can give to anyone. I admire your drive, your discipline, and again, egg brain!

Have a wonderful time at your performance too! I miss that sense of giddy, slighty queasy, adrenaline WHOOSHing few moments whilst waiting for my cue in the wings. Also the waiting backstage, heavily scented with carnations and Aqua Net (hm... maybe I should find my imp of Stardust), the sounds of Uno and gossip and rustling tulle. Ahh... nostalgia!

Punching? Also theraputic.

But yeah, I know what you mean about the touchy-feely culty strangers. I get the same type of heebie jeebies whenever I go to a church with all the forced neighborly stuff.

I get my physical succor from a select few intimates. The added stress of coping with a strange (albeit well-meaning) body all up in my area does not help with the coping AT ALL.

Having said all that, I haven't experienced this intense of a loss yet. I hope you do find some more people who have gone through this to help you feel your way through your grief.

Still Waters Run Shallow

That just put a special smile on my face.

"Blessed are the Cheesemakers."

 

I enjoyed your post yesterday, but I also enjoy sammiches.

Snarky enjoys the occasional gross-out too. She just felt she was a little short on the redeeming factor with yesterday's post. Depressing staring-into-the-void is so her-rogue-poet-days-in-high-school. Also, yes, sammiches are good. Almost as good as soup. But soup and sammiches? Perfection!

"Oh, no, my period is excessively heavy this month..."

Darkity had forgotten that part... but now it's back full force, in technicolor smell-o-vision. Such a wonderful bit of oneupsmanship line-wise. Wonder who thought of that throw-away bit.

Darkity still has fantasies of rogue accountants storming the office all swash-buckly and manic some days.

You're proof that even admirable folks aspire for other things. It's what makes us human. We *are* because we *want*.

S'perfectly normal. I've always feared that complete happiness would herald the end of me via complacency and absolutely no desire for improvement.

At one point I had planned to cataloge character studies of concert-going archetypes. Scary-fat-class-clown guy was one of them (and I agree, that guy is brrr scary!). There's a whole "painfully earnest teen" subtype including "Little Miss/Mr. Drumalong (bottom lip between teeth, eyes closed)" and "OMG I'M SO HAPPY THEY'RE PLAYING *MY* SONG/Bunny Hopper".

For the record, The Mister is a "Totally White Dude/Bobbing Head Hipster Wannabe" while I'm "Entitled Short Chick/Interpretive Dancer"

I, uh, have never seen any of the CSI's.

(Though I keep hearing about the awesomeness of it. Plus the yumminess of Grissom. I can't help but think of Peterson in his "Manhunter" role, which just makes me think of Meier architecture and Miami Vice. Which is sort of a guilty kind of a turn on.)

Oh dear. Now I've got my imaginary William Jefferson Clinton (wow, that does make me tingle just saying it) voice crooning in the back of my head: "Ah couldn't help it, y'know. After all, I'm just a crazy ol' poon hound, ma'am." One part aw-shucks, one part pick-up-line, all swirled together with a Southern swizzle stick.

I suppose all us angsty/gothic types romanticize stalking at some point. What higher kind of twisted devotion is there than the one where you completely lose yourself in the charisma of another? It took one very slight brush with stalkerdom (an online acquaintance looked up my phone number and called me out of the blue when I wasn't quick to answer an email) for me to kill all romantic notions of the practice, though.

That was just creepy.

ETA: Poon hound. Hee!

Snarky didn't mean to scare ya, honest she didn't! She's had a fascination/horror of her own body, its fluids, and its functions her whole life.

It's just that turning thirty seems to put a real sense of finality to it all.

When she isn't navel gazing Snarky does enjoy feeling her age too. Some things she didn't have in her teens and early twenties:

- self awareness

- a good relationship with her parents

- The Mister

- a real understanding of the depth of her friendships (see also: self awareness)

- non-slutty fashion sense

Sometimes Snarky looks in the mirror and curses the march of time. Other times she looks and doesn't see the fault-lines, just the way she's grown up. Thirty ain't so bad unless you want it to be. This could probably be applied to any age, really.

Ha! That's pretty much The Mister and my musical tastes in a nutshell as well. He didn't work in the industry for a decade, but he did spend his bachelor years doing a weekly ritual of heading out to Tower Records and making himself listen to every single one of the new albums for the week, no matter the genre, and buying anything that struck his fancy.

He has his old skool favorites as I have mine, but we're eight years apart (which is like a whole generation music-wise, and also means I like crappy music -- my first concert was for NKOTB ).

We love all the retro bands that have been coming out (Interpol, Killers, White Stripes, She Wants Revenge, etc.) and also have a special place in our hearts for raucus ensemble bands like Arcade Fire, New Pornographers, and the March Fourth Marching Band (local gypsy/punk/vaudevillian/marching band).

I'm big on quirk (Flaming Lips, though I've heard not-so-good things about their new album; They Might Be Giants; Dresden Dolls; and dammit if Modest Mouse hasn't finally grown on me).

Still, we also appreciate older stuff too. Suzanne Vega, Concrete Blond, Siouxsie, Cure, New Order, old King Crimson, Rush, Depeche Mode, Sisters of Mercy, all those numbers/letters (B-52's, REM, U2).

We have a love/hate relationship with Mark Eitzel (of American Music Club). Sadcore is the cantankerous grand-pappy of Emo.

S'good to have a variety, but it's also good to have your comfort music, y'know?

It also looks like the kind of house that could have an adorable little clothesline in the back where darkity could hang her frilly panties!

Now that's a compelling mental image! More incentive for Snarky to get said frilly underthings.

His response: "I recognized all of the individual words you used, but I don't really get what they mean when you put them all together like that." Poor guy, he puts up with some strange dinnertable conversation.

The Mister often makes the "... in English, please" request of Snarky, though she is having a similar reaction to Antimony's seemingly related string of words.

Snarky finds comfort in knowing that there are men out there that allow the giant egghead women in their lives to go to the scary brain places.

I have a freaked out/intrigued by response to spiders. I'll watch them for hours from a safe distance. It's the flying cockroaches that make me shriek, flail, and go into a berzerker rage.

And I've recently gotten into bubble baths with the LUSH bubble bar slices. Mostly hot toddy and ruby red slippers. There's something sort of wicked about bathing in reddish water.

We are contemplating a garden tub for two in the second bathroom of our soon-to-be house. The Mister takes baths almost as often as I, only his are usually more for muscle therapy purposes. But with a tub large enough for both of us.... well, maybe he could swing a little recreational use too.

I think I have a Diane.

I've got a crap recording of "In Your Eyes" in a cappella. So very pretty. (Even with the crap!)

Though I've been with The Mister for (whoa) eight years now, I think we're still defining our roles in and outside of the home in relation to each other. A lot has to do with both of us being in career limbo. Moving and spending a year in a tiny apartment also hit a "reset" button on our nesting.

Now with the house looming (closing is in less than two weeks!) and a somewhat stable job situation, I'm curious to see how things shape up.

There was going to be a rambling, philosophical response about spiritual callouses and using one's awareness as the pumice stone to keep one's hands sensitive enough to feel the soft and supple along with the sharp and ragged...

But then you mentioned whiny-pants, which evoked whiny-panties, and I'm at a loss to draw out the conclusions of my metaphor.

Maybe it's numbness/cluelessness isn't the answer, but just a break. Small pockets of silence taken like a vitamin.

I've personally sunk so deep in my pocket I need to get back out. Like taking too much vitamin C, my bloodstream is saturated by my reclusion, and now I'm just pissing my life away.

Erg. That metaphor sort of ran away, didn't it. Panties!

Saturday Darkity shed her winter skin and flitting among the flailing hippies at an Earth Day festival. She danced to retro-gypsy marching band music and rode a choo choo train.

Sunday she spent most of the day indoors (for shame!) filing away the stacks of paperwork drifting about the apartment. During a supply run she stepped in to the 3-D gallery/museum and saw a book of 3-D pinup girl posters and thought of minilux.

The whole time, in the back of her head, she could feel the clicks, whirrs, brass hits, and staccatto drumbeats of a synthesizer punctuating every step.

Bree-bop Bee-Whoop!

See, I didn't have that gut-level attraction with The Beats on account of first getting into this guy's stuff:

No sex appeal at all. No siree. Bukowski = the opposite of teh sexy.

(Though I agree, Kerouac was definitely nice to look at in his prime.)